He was on the Hamburg office expense ledger. Credit unlimited. He picked up a thousand pounds at the firm's London bank. He would live in style. He started with a suite at the Mayfair.
There he examined the case's contents.
One Weatherby.227 bolt action varmint rifle without markings. Monte Carlo stock in hand-rubbed walnut. The weapon had been drilled to mount a starscope, a nightsight that made use of ambient light. The scope shared cheesecloth wrappings with a long tubular silencer, five rounds of target ammo, and five explosives rounds. The latter were the kind that had had a hole tapped down the centerline, filled with a drop of mercury, and resealed. The kind that would rip a man worse than any dumdum or hollow point.
There were two sets of identification. He could be Llewelyn Jones, lorry mechanic from Cardiff. Or Thomas Hardy, insurance executive, on holiday from Ottawa, Canada.
"Too big a hurry," he muttered. How the hell could he fake a Welsh accent? And he didn't know shit about insurance, though that identity would be manageable as long as he didn't have to answer business questions.
It looked like Spuk would have to get him back to Hamburg.
There were flyers for the rock concert. Just two performances remained. Tonight and tomorrow night.
He didn't like it.
The man in Hamburg had called the mission a widow-maker. He had been right.
Haste made wasted agents.
Speed, surprise, and the complacency of the English would be his advantages. He had to make the best possible use of them.
At least someone had bothered to do a preliminary study. There were freehand drawings of the hall layout, and confirmation of earlier reports on the habits of the Danzer group.
They could not be reached outside the hall. The group traveled in dense security, which existed entirely to hype their reputation.
It wasn't working. They hadn't yet played to a sellout audience.
The moment of maximum vulnerability would come while they were on stage. Therefore, the rifle.
Michael sprawled across his bed, eyes closed, for ten minutes.
This could get rough. He wouldn't have a friend in the whole damned country.
Above all else, he concluded, he had to secure his line of retreat.
Thoughts of Ilse and the baby intruded. God, what a woman… He didn't understand her. How could she love him so much?
He had had a dozen lovers before Ilse, but not a one had he needed the way he needed her. Maybe it was a response to his total expatriation. And the little guy… He was such a quiet baby, almost spooky with those big, blue, intelligent eyes. Ilse insisted that he was going to be a great man someday.
He tried forcing them from his mind. That only created a vacuum into which Nancy and his first brood stole.
Nerve was the key, he reminded himself. He had to start getting himself up for it now. He could not be the old Michael. He couldn't let fear make him do something that would get him killed or caught.
Damn! There just wasn't time to do it right. They wanted Snake dead quick. Did Sung have an observer on his tail? Probably.
He rose, turned to the rifle. Why this weapon? With its flat trajectory it was superb for small game at extended ranges, but… For this job Michael would have preferred something heavier, something with a lower muzzle velocity. The slower projectile had more time to break up inside its target. Nor was he familiar with the weapon. He assembled it and broke it down twice, feeling for economy of motion. Speed practice would have to wait. He had things to do, alternatives to establish, before the shops closed for the day.
Cash checked the Canadian papers again. They might do.
He selected a vanity case, descended to the lobby.
"Yes, Herr Spuk?" the clerk asked as he approached.
Michael forced a slight accent as he asked, "Would it be possible for the hotel to obtain entertainment tickets?" “Of course, sir. A show, sir? They recommend-" “The Danzer concert. A box. For this evening." “Danzer, sir?"
“Erik Danzer. The rock singer." “Very well, sir." The man's nose went up. “The young lady, she is fond of Danzer."
It was a red herring that Michael hoped would produce multiple rewards. The clerk would adjust his present opinion. And in future should report that Herr Spuk had had a female companion when the police came asking their questions. They might waste valuable time trying to find the woman.
"Ah, I see." The clerk winked.
Michael smiled, then asked the doorman to hail a cab. He tipped generously.
It was Huang's money.
He studied the Hardy identity during a brief journey. And within a half hour was in a second cab, studying again, after having taken a small room as Thomas Hardy.
That afternoon he obtained wigs, theatrical makeup, and new clothing. And surgeon's gloves.
They should have provided the latter with the rifle.
Wigs were a must for the concert hall. His military-style haircut stood out like the sex of a male interloper in the girls' locker room at showertime. He was lucky he was traveling German. The English expected Germans to look like soldiers on leave.
Then he tried pushing his luck, and the calm, talent, and training of the man within him.
"What's the matter, Mr. Hardy?" the rental officer asked.
He had been frantically rehearsing his driving. And had forgotten that the British did everything bass-ackward.
"This is my first trip to England. I forgot all about right-hand steering. On the Continent-"
"I should have realized, sir. I'm sorry. We do have a little left-hand Simca automatic."
"Fine. Perfect. The Jag really wasn't me anyway." What had made him choose that beast? This was no time for doing a Walter Mitty-playing-James Bond number.
"On the expense ledger, sir?" The attendant began processing the new papers.
"Yes. You know how it is."
"I wish I did, sir. I wish I did. I didn't ask before. Not polite, you know. But I wondered… you're from Ottawa…?"
"Yes?" Michael's heart crept toward his throat. He didn't even know where in Canada Ottawa was.
"I wondered if you'd ever heard of a Mr. Charles Allen Underhill, sir. That's me mum's brother. He emigrated after the war."
"I'm sorry. No."
"Ah, I expected so. And him always writing Mum what a big name he is over there."
"That's human nature."